Thieves World 7 – The Dead of Winter by Asprin, Robert

rest a little while. The shutters of the house by the White Foal were all

closed. What black birds sat in the trees did so with heads under wing,

mirroring their mistress. There was no sound there but the rattling of dry

leaves and withered rose-hips in the thorny hedge.

“This place smells like death,” said the raven perched on the shoulder of the

skinny, ragged girl who stood by the little wicket gate.

“It should,” said Mriga, and reached out sorrowfully to something that wasn’t

wholly there. At least her mortal senses refused to acknowledge it. Her godsight

clearly showed her a big bay steed, still saddled, its reins hanging loose,

standing forlornly by the gate and gazing at the rundown house. As Mriga reached

out to it the bay rolled eye-whites at her and put its ears back, but the

gesture was half-hearted. After a second it relented, whuffling, and put its

nose in her hand, then swung its great head around to breathe of her breath by

way of greeting.

“Poor, poor …” Mriga said, stroking the shivering place just under the bay’s

jaw. Tyr looked on suspiciously, eyeing the horse’s hooves. Siveni in her raven

shape cocked a bright black eye. She was fond of horses: she had after all

invented them, thereby winning a contest.

“One more ghost,” she said. “And recent. The woman breeds them.”

“Recently, yes.” And the door at the top of the steps opened, and there was

another ghost, more or less. At least the man was dead. Outwardly he merely

looked scarred. One eye was covered with a patch and his face was a wealed ruin